A Journalist Bids Farewell
by tlgdenco
Summary: Sherlock Holmes desperately seeks cases to distract himself from boredom. But now in the onset of winter he is faced with his past. Its one of the few cases to ever have stumped the great mind of Sherlock Holmes. Together with Dr. Watson he must work to solve the cold case of a brutal beating and execution of a rising London Journalist. [Incomplete - More to follow]
1. Chapter 1

The heavy rains from earlier in the day had finally subsided, and a thick layer of clouds continued to roll across the sky - the sun futilely trying to shine through. Water snaked its way down the window. First as multiple different streams, only to eventually all begin to join together. It was hard to believe that summer had passed so quickly. It seemed like only a few days ago it had been unbearably hot and dry.

"I'm going out John," Sherlock said starring out the window, his gaze never turning. He had stood there, hands clenched behind his back, shoulders pulled high, starring blankly for several minutes.

"Now? So suddenly, and in the rain?" I quickly replied, instantly regretting ever having asked.

"Its as good a time as any. I can't stand the sight of this flat any longer," he retorted growing increasingly agitated. Spinning he grabbed his scarf and jacket, quickly making his way down the stairs.

By the time I had made my way downstairs to join him, he had already hailed a cab, and was sitting silently in the back waiting for me. Sensing that I had already delayed him enough as it was, I quickly made my way around and into the backseat. He sat as rigid as he had stood at the window. His fingers quickly tapping the armrest, as though something were bothering him. Without a word the cab lurched forward and down the narrow lane.

We drove quite some time, the cabbie expertly maneuvering through the city, as we sat quietly in the back. Sherlock's tapping never stopping, rhythmic, consistent. I wanted to ask where we were headed but knew better than to interrupt his train of thought. When he was ready to share, he would. In the meantime it was silence - painful, deafening, uncomfortable silence.

I had hated the last several weeks. There had been no cases of any significance; the weather was either cold and windy, or raining, or some unpleasant combination of both; Sherlock complained constantly of his boredom, resulting in the most dramatic and unexpected of mood swings. He had taken comfort in his violin, though over the weeks his playing had grown more somber, more thoughtful.

I was lost in thought starring out the window as the cab pulled to the curb and stopped. The sky had once again become grey and a think mist had begun to fall. It was only Sherlock's brusque, "We're here," that brought me back to the present. Even before I could turn to look toward Sherlock to ask where we were, the door flung open. Hurriedly I jumped from the cab in an effort to keep up.

We stood before the Anglican chapel serving as the entrance to Highgate Cemetery. The gated archway was swung open, the cobblestone path soaked and slippery, the peaked roof veiled in the heavy mist. The weather had rendered the cemetery almost deserted. It was eerily quiet save the faint random calls of birds. Sherlock stood motionless, his collar turned up against the mist, surveying everything before him.

"Well…" he started, "Shall we?" Turning with a quick glance toward me. Not sure what exactly to make of the situation I motioned toward entrance, following a step or so behind.

We made our way to the ticket counter through the nearly empty reception hall and were greeted by a young woman, much younger than one would expect working at such a place. Without so much as a greeting, and before she had a chance to say much more than "Good afternoon," Sherlock rather tersely asked for two tickets. Subtly he glanced over his shoulder toward me. It was a look I had become all too accustom to, a look that had rather come to annoy me. Quickly I stepped around Sherlock to the counter and pulled my wallet. I couldn't help but stare knowingly at Sherlock while paying for both of our tickets.

We entered the East Cemetery, as Sherlock had no interest in "listening to an undereducated, overpaid, historian blather on about the importance of those buried here." We slowly walked down the narrow paved paths, periodically stopping long enough for Sherlock to read a head stone, utter something under his breath, and continue down the path. He was unusually quiet, and I knew better than to press him to share. I knew it was better to let him have this time to himself.

As we walked the mist became more of a fog. The large trees filling the cemetery had already begun to change color with the season, and in spots fallen leaves covered the path. We passed, without stopping, the tombs of Marx, Caulfield, and Mary Ann Cross – more commonly known by her pseudonym 'George Eliot'. At these sites I took a moment to pause, inevitably falling behind and needing to catch up. It wasn't until we had nearly made our way through the whole old cemetery that Sherlock diverted off the path and made his way toward a small, nondescript headstone. It was faded white like so many of the other stones around. Weather and time had rendered it worn. A small crack meandered through the stone from the top, splitting it almost entirely in two. What struck me most was that this stone should not have been so weathered for its age. It was dated September 8th, 1997. The rest of the stone was out of view, blocked by Sherlock and his oversized coat as he stood leaning over it, his left hand resting on the top. It struck me as odd, for he hadn't taken such an interest in any of the other headstones. Finally his head dropped, but only for a moment. Quickly, remembering I was there, he stood up, shoved his hands in his pockets, and hastily he turned - pushing his way past me headed for the exit.

"Sher…" I started, but knew there was no point in going any further. He was already making his way quickly down the path. I glanced back at the stone, just long enough to read the name – Mary Russell. Looking back at Sherlock, he was far enough ahead of me that he had already begun to disappear into the fog, and for that moment there was nothing I can do but stand there. So many questions running through my head, thoughts jumbled, one overlapping the next.

When I made it to the exit of Highgate, Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. I continued to look, knowing already that he had hailed a cab and taken a solitary ride, eventually, back to 221b.

Frustrated and overwhelmed I reached for my mobile, quickly scrolling through my contacts and pulling up Mycroft. "Who is Mary?" my fingers pounded out, quivering slightly as I sent the message.

Throughout the duration of my cab ride back to 221b, I tried to get my head around what I had just seen. My friend, my best friend, a man I thought I knew, had so expertly kept this secret from me. What else didn't I know? Obsessively I checked my phone only to be disappointed at not having received a response from Mycroft, each time becoming more frustrated by his silence.

Stepping out of the cab I stood before the entrance of the flat, I needed composure. I couldn't blame Sherlock, yet I couldn't let him see my frustration. Deep down I knew there was no front I could put up that he wouldn't eventually see through. It really wasn't a matter of if, but when, or perhaps, rather, how quickly. I slowly climbed the stairs to the flat. Opening the door, and as if on cue a low chime came from my pocket. Finally Mycroft had responded.

"Perhaps we should talk. See you in an hour. – M"

It wasn't long before my phone rang, three times, then silence. Grabbing my jacket I shuffled down the stairs. The moment I stepped outside a jet black Mercedes pulled to the curb. The door opening from the inside; I stepped in.

Twenty-five minutes later I found myself entering yet another isolated industrial warehouse. Mycroft stood from his chair hanging his umbrella from his forearm, while extending his hand in greeting.

"No. Don't try to be cordial. You've asked me to look after him Mycroft, yet you knowingly hid aspects of his life from me. Quit the act. Who is she?"

"He wasn't always this way you know? In the larger picture his current state is relatively new."

"Who. Is. She?"

"Come on now Dr. Watson. It's relatively obvious isn't it? Surely you already know? Denying the fact won't change it." And he was right. I didn't want to admit it, but deep down I had known since the minute I had seen the tombstone.

"I want the details. Who was she? How did she die?"

"He's always been observant, noticing the smallest of details… But never obsessive. Never sociopathic… He loved her. Perhaps she's the only woman he's ever loved - intimately. She found him fascinating, complex, enjoyed the enigma. He took her death hard. It changed him…" he trailed off.

For a moment we stood silent, starring at each other. I didn't know what to say, and Mycroft didn't know where to start. He just sort of fiddled with his umbrella. "She was an investigative journalist – The Daily Telegraph," he continued, "Long story short she was murdered. Cornered in a park… Beaten, then shot… Execution style." Though Mycroft certainly had conveyed such stories before in his position, this one made him cringe, though he tried to hide it, I noticed. "It's the only murder ever to perplex the mind of the great Sherlock Holmes."

"How come you'd never mentioned this to me? How am I just finding out about this now, after all theses years?" I demanded an answer.

"John, when Sherlock asks that an event not have occurred, then it doesn't. Her death hovers over him, consumes him. In fact for months he didn't leave the flat. He never shaved, nor bathed. It was then that he first detached himself. Broke. He built a sanctuary wherein he couldn't be touched. Couldn't be hurt. Most importantly – couldn't' suffer." A small smile creeped across his lips, "Let it go John. This too shall pass, and he will return as the Sherlock we've come to know."

"You say it like its easy Mycroft. I have to deal with this as much as Sherlock does. I can't just watch my friend suffer. He needs my support, my love. Can't you see his pain?"

"I'm sorry John. I really am. But there is nothing you can do for him. Please, for his sanity, and yours, let it go." Again he smiled slightly before turning and walking toward the rear of the warehouse. "Give Mrs. Hudson my regards John!" He called back twirling his umbrella.

To be honest I don't remember much of the ride back to the flat. It all went by in a blur. Mycroft's answers and cavalier attitude had shaken me to my core. Really the next thing I truly remember is standing at the door to the flat, my hand on the knob and my forehead pressed against the glass, lost in thought. Only when Sherlock beckoned from within did I find myself pulled back to where I was.

"John can you hand me a pen," he called again as I stepped into the flat. He stood hunched over a table full of polaroid's, documents, reports. "John, a pen. Quickly."

Instinctively I hurried to the desk and grabbed one of my pens. Having passed it to Sherlock I stood a moment, looking upon the man I once thought I had known. Though he was the same, it was as if I had just met him for the first time.

"Sherlock, shouldn't we…" I couldn't even finish the sentence before he cut me off.

"Take a look at this John," he said circling a portion of one of the photographs he was examining.

"Sherlock," I repeated, "I think its best we discuss what happened earlier." His hands gripped the edges of the table.

His body stiffened and his voice becoming low and direct. "Nothing of your concern happened earlier." Turning to look at me directly. "Stop asking. Stop prying. Just stop! There is nothing you could ever understand."

I just stood there blank, hurt. I wanted to help my friend. I wanted to be a rock for him and this small sliver of humanity he carried with him.

"She died. She's gone. There's nothing that can change that, and there's nothing that you can do to bring her warmth back into this world. Just leave! Get out of my sight. I need quiet. I need to think!" He shouted, growing more and more agitated the longer I stood there, bewildered.

Silently I turned toward the door to leave. Sherlock paced back and forth before the table. It was clear he had already begun to slip away into his mind palace. It would be some time before he would be ready to speak with me again. I decided it best that I try to sort my own thoughts before returning.


	2. Chapter 2

I had spent the early part of the evening alone, at the bar, trying to digest everything that had occurred that day. I poured over every detail until it hurt to think. It was then that I made my way to Sarah's house, in her company everything seemed right.

I left for the flat at about a quarter after ten, arriving at the bottom of the hour. I had known Sherlock to have these sorts of fits in the past, yet this time I wasn't sure what I to suspect from him.

I could hear his violin playing as I entered the stairwell and made my way up. He stood looking out the window, playing a piece I had heard many times before. Without speaking, nor turning, he pointed with his bow toward the table. There sat an old, and exceptionally worn set of files. The pages sticking out showed their age in the deep shade of yellow they had taken over the years. He began once more to play.

Sitting, I began to make my way through the documents. I took in each page, the violin growing more angry in the background. I separated pictures from reports, reports from newspaper clippings, clippings from interviews, interviews from notes. Quickly the piles grew in front of me. It was only after I had finished sorting that I realized the music had stopped. Sherlock stood over me, gazing upon what I had done.

"Well… Preliminary analysis John?" he asked, as he always did on cases.

"Really Sherlock I don't know where to start."

"It's the emotions John. They are clouding your judgment. Look again, distance yourself – everything we need is here. Together - we can solve this case."

Both anger and hatred pounded through my veins. How could he talk like this about his wife, his love? Overwhelmed by the urge to strike him, I could only mange a feeble, "Please… Sherlock, I can't. Walk me through this. Help me understand."

He wasn't pleased with my response and turned abruptly, filled with disgust. He grabbed his knife and hurled it toward the wall. Judging by the number of marks I guessed he had filled his night doing just the same. "Its there John. Its all there… I just can't put the pieces together," he softly uttered under his breath.

I made tea and Sherlock spent the next three hours walking me through everything he had deduced, everything he knew, and every theory he had ever come up with. He lie on the couch starring at the ceiling as he finished walking me through the case. For just a moment, though it was well hidden behind the façade he had constructed, I saw the look of helplessness and fear on his face. Just as quickly as it had appeared it was gone. He sat up abruptly, and blurted out his need for a cigarette.

"When was the last time you revisited this case? Took a fresh look at the evidence?" I asked.

He scoffed, throwing himself back onto the couch. "You're amazing John. Utterly and dumbfoundingly amazing. I don't revisit this case. I don't forget the photographs. I don't set the evidence aside. Don't you understand John? - No… How could you? - Every spare moment of every day I spend reliving, recounting, every little detail. Questioning where I went wrong, what I missed… John, I live this case. It consumes me. It taunts me. It haunts me. It brings me to my knees, and so help me god… I will find the answers. - John, has it ever occurred to you that there is a reason I hate being bored? That there is a reason I hate an idle mind? A reason I devote myself to my work? It's all a release. A sort of freedom from the guilt, the burden. A distraction, for without it I am sucked and dragged once more into the labyrinth. Losing the game. - Losing."

I turned back to the stacks I had made on the table. I had no words. Never had I seen this side of Sherlock. Never had he shown pain, weakness, humanity. Finally his world had begun to make sense to me. A world, and a burden, only he could bare, both of which could have driven a lesser man to his breaking point. Perhaps it had him as well.


	3. Chapter 3

The next several days were a flutter of activity, as life seemed to begin to return to normal. Sherlock and I had spent the majority of that time assisting Lestrade on two seemingly unrelated murders, only for Sherlock to break the case and tie the two together. Mrs. Hudson had insisted that she cook us a proper dinner. And Mycroft had stopped by citing official business, though it soon became clear his interest in fact lay elsewhere.

I had finally found a few minutes of peace by myself in the flat while Sherlock was occupied with experiments at the morgue. Something about post-mortem wounds relative to blood loss, honestly I hadn't entirely paid attention. I sat with a cup of tea and the day's paper, though I couldn't seem to focus. My thoughts constantly were drawn back to the stacks of papers still sitting on the table.

Before I knew it I found myself seated at the table sorting through the documents as if it were just another case Lestrade had brought over for review. As I worked my way through the pictures, I continued to find myself drawn to the coroners report. Though both Sherlock and Mycroft had been clear as to the cause of death, something about the report stood out to me. I tried to ignore the nagging sense that I was missing something.

It had felt like I had only been sifting through the documents for only a few minutes when I heard the outer door open and the creaking of the stairs. There wasn't any point in trying to conceal the fact that I had been reviewing the documents. Rather I grabbed my tea and turned to greet Sherlock. What had been a piping hot cup of Earl Gray was now cold.

"How was it?" I asked.

"Predictable. Hardly worth having taken the time. Molly found it rather interesting though." His coat flying toward the couch.

Momentarily I sat silent, starring at my cup of now undrinkable tea. Without looking up, "Sherlock, something has been bothering me about Mary's autopsy report. I don't know why… I've been looking at it for some time now, and I can't see anything directly wrong. But -," I trailed off. I could feel his heavy gaze, but I didn't dare look up.

I wasn't sure what I was expecting, but Sherlock's silence was overwhelming. I couldn't stand it any longer. Standing to refresh my tea, I looked toward the couch. Sherlock sat leaning back into the couch, one leg crossed over the other, starring at me. His were eyes drawn narrow and cold, his brow furrowed. He held his hands together, fingertips touching just under his nose. He was reading me, deciphering every little thing he could. He didn't say anything but motioned for me to take my seat again. "Really, John…?" he asked, skeptical.

"Its just a feeling. I don't know why." I could feel myself shrinking, pulling back. My gaze drifted back to the table, now cluttered and disorganized mess I had created. All I could do was sit, stare, biting my lip, trying to think, trying to put into words everything that bounced around in my head.

That's when I saw it, out of the corner of my eye. Sherlock barely moved as I sprang from my chair to grab what had caught my eye. I stood hunched over the table, my eyes darting between all the documents I snatched from piles.

"Well?" the agitation growing in his voice.

"Its here. Look! The report is incomplete! - Well… No, it's complete, but… Just look!" I implored becoming more frustrated at my inability to concisely articulate the details. Spinning I thrust two documents in his direction.

He sat motionless studying what I had thrown at him. He arranged them on the coffee table in one order, then quickly began to rearrange. I had stopped trying to understand his thought processes long ago. I watched closely, but it wasn't enlightenment or discovery that overcame him. He sat there blank. He couldn't see it.

"Sherlock, you were right… All of the pieces are here, we just need to see them. - Look," I said motioning toward the first document – a crime scene photo. It was ghastly by all measures of the word. "Here on her arm, six numbers starting at the wrist and ending below the elbow. 1, 3, 5, 7, 11, and 13 - but the one has been crossed out… the thirteen circled." I continued, glancing at Sherlock momentarily, though he concealed it well his mind raced, yet his demeanor was calm and relaxed. "Now look here," I continued grabbing the coroners report, "the report makes no mention of such numbers. Nothing here on the anatomical notes, and look here on the autopsy photos - again nothing. They've been cleaned off…"

Sherlock sank back into the couch, hands pressed tightly against his lips. His eyes slowly closed, "Of course, how could I've been so stupid?" he whispered.

Even before I could say a word Sherlock put his hand up stopping me, "No, stop. No talking. No thinking. Be quiet. - Stop moving, just stop, everything.

"Prime numbers, why prime? Six - no, five… Was six. One, three, five, seven, eleven, thirteen… One, three, five, seven, eleven, thirteen… No, no, no it's all-wrong. None of it makes any sense. Why the arm, the left arm, wrist to elbow - Radius, Ulna, Humerus, Extensor Carpi Ulnaris, Digitorum, Digiti Minimi… No, the arm's irrelevant, convenient, it's the numbers. Why the numbers? Thirteen, eleven, seven, five, three, one… Mary, what is it? What are you telling me?" He shot forward, sitting straight up, letting out a quick gasp for air. "Articles! We need her articles. We'll find what we need in them. She wrote twelve before she died. They're in an envelope in my closet. Find them! All of them!"

"How can you be…"

"For god sake John… The numbers themselves are irrelevant, misleading to someone who didn't know her. The key is the one and the thirteen. She hated her first article. I pushed her to publish – hence the slash. The thirteen, circled, unfinished, never published… It's a clue John!" he exclaimed pulling his phone from his pocket. Quickly his fingers began pounding out a series of texts. His phone chiming back as frantically as he typed.

For a moment he stopped and looked at me starring, frustrated he gesticulated as if to ask _"What are you waiting for, go!"_

Sherlock's closet was as cluttered as he kept the flat, or "work place" as he called it. Boxes were haphazardly stacked from floor to ceiling. Loose papers littered the floor, and disorganized stacks of papers sat atop and between boxes. Slowly I began to sort through each box.

After what seemed like hours I found the envelope. It was a small, non-descript manila envelope, covered in dust. It hadn't been moved or opened in some time. The articles inside had yellowed with time.

I brought the envelope back to the flat's living space, where Sherlock paced before the window. Without looking up from the floor he said, "Leave it on the table please. Mycroft has released information regarding the case to Lestrade, specifically who at the time worked the case, who had access and opportunity to clean the body before the autopsy… You'll need to pick it up immediately." Stopping for just a moment he looked up and smiled. It was both a smile of sly satisfaction and utter joy. "The game is afoot."


	4. Chapter 4

When I returned to 221b, I found that the twelve articles had been spread across the floor. Sherlock was standing on the couch, "trying to gain a better perspective."

Taking a seat on the back of the couch, his bare feet on the cushions, he let out a sigh. Using the bow from his violin as a pointer, he walked me through four of the twelve articles. He was slow and thorough, being sure not to miss any details. I asked questions when confused and tried to follow the different stories as best I could. My head was spinning once he had finished, but I couldn't seem to find a single connection between any of what Sherlock had walked me through. Admittedly neither could Sherlock.

"These four should have told us something, but they haven't. I had assumed walking you through them would have triggered a revelation, seems I was mistaken. We're missing it again John - the obvious. Look," he continued to motion with his bow toward each article as it lay on spread out on the floor, "articles one, three, four, and seven – 'The White Bleeds Red', 'The Mules of Trafalgar', 'Under the Cover of Night', and 'In Her Majesty's Service' –all focused on corruption of government officials through organized crime – means and motive.

"Articles two, eight and nine – 'It Dies from Above', 'The Ethics of Abroad', and 'Stealing From the Poor' – all focused on corrupt and unethical corporations in Britain.

"Articles five, six, and ten – 'Without a Word', 'The Innocence Stolen', and 'The Anglican Trap' – exposés on sexual abuse within the Anglican Church.

"Finally articles eleven and twelve," pausing momentarily to collect his thoughts, "eleven and twelve - 'The Angel of Death' and 'Silence is Power'. No connection. One regarding the suspicious deaths of the elderly in hospitals across London, and the other on the physical intimidation of witnesses to violent crimes in the Borough of Southwalk, specifically Peckham." He sat silently, reflecting on the significance of the twelve articles.

Quickly he stood and hopped off the couch. "Perhaps a nice cup of tea can clear the mind. Shall we take a trip down to the shop on the corner?" he asked, not waiting for an answer. He grabbed his coat and scarf, quickly heading for the door. Taking one final quick look at the faded articles in front of me, I stood and began to follow.

I found Sherlock at one of the café's patio tables. He sat uttering under his breath to himself. "Not like you to sit outside Sherlock," I said.

"Ha ha ha," he sarcastically emphasized, "The shop keep refuses to let me in without any shoes. Such a stupid rule… I had no other option but to sit out here. And the birds refuse to - SHUT UP!"

"Yes - Quite terribly rude of them." I said entering the café. As I ordered two teas inside I could see him hunched over and continuing to talk to himself under his breath. He always did so when something was bothering him.

By the time I had rejoined him, the sun had broken through the midafternoon clouds and shone warmly. We sat in silence drinking our tea. There had been times when we would go days without speaking. I had come to learn that when Sherlock wanted to talk he would, in the mean time he sought silence.

As we sat my mind wandered back to the newspaper articles strewn about the flat. Nothing in the articles seemed to make sense. Mary, as an investigative journalist, had been very skilled at making enemies. Her stories exposed federal employees, politicians, vicars, thugs, and even doctors and police officers. Any number of those mentioned in her work could have had the means and motive to want her dead… But if that were true why would she have taken the time to write the clue on her arm? I wanted to ask Sherlock, but knew that this was neither the time nor the place to bring up such a topic. It would have to wait until we had made our way home.

As we sat, each lost in our own thoughts, my front left pocket vibrated – once then twice. _"A new message? Mycroft? Lestrade?"_ I thought. Sure enough Mycroft had messaged me.

"Quite the busy helper lately, I've noticed. – M"

"Well, Sherlock, perhaps we should be heading back. Mrs. Hudson is surely waiting. We haven't been able to spare even a moment for her lately." I said sliding my phone back into my pocket.

"What? Oh, um, yes, you're right I suppose. We should probably stop in before I head to the morgue again this afternoon."

"Oh? More experiments, or are you still focused on the coagulation time period of blood post mortem?"

"For heaven's sake no… Currently I'm rather curious as to how fully the stomach digests meals once a person had died. Should be fun!" A small smile appeared on his lips, his eyebrows rising with excitement.

Sherlock grabbed his shoes, then a cab. I grabbed a seat on the couch. Once again poring over the newspaper articles. I began reading at the beginning, each article so meticulously written, expertly researched.

As I read through the third article, 'The Mules of Trafalgar', I recognized a name. I had seen it before – Clarence Gable. I desperately searched through the documents Lestrade had received from Mycroft. Sure enough one of the files contained a brief biography of Mr. Pike – Langdale Pike – also known by his aliases Lord Peter, Winston Augustus, Clarence Gable, Donald Frist and an assortment of other aliases. From the photo attached to the biography he was a dashing man. He was forty-three, though he looked to be in his early thirties. His hair long and wavy, pulled back behind his ears. He had piercing blue eyes and a narrow chin. He had been arrested on a few different occasions but for nothing serious – public drunkenness, minor theft, and a few inconsequential traffic violations. Generally speaking he was far superior to the sorts of evil I had become accustomed to working with in assisting Sherlock. According to the file he had taken a job working for the city as a maintenance technician about a week before Mary's murder. _"In his short tenure with the city he had multiple disciplinary warnings, was habitually late for work, and seemed uninterested in his work. On the day of September 8__th__, 1997 Mr. Pike was scheduled to assist on electrical upgrades to the city's morgue. He arrived late and was described as "frustrated" by his supervisor. Throughout the day Mr. Pike seemed distant and distracted,"_ the file read.

_"What are you doing in this article as a source?" _I silently wondered to myself. I set his biography aside and took note of his name, which article it appeared in, and where within the article it appeared.

It wasn't long before I read something that sent chills up my spine. There it was in the middle of 'Without a Word' – Winston Augustus. I sank back into the couch running my hands through my hair, overwhelmed by shock. My mind raced, nothing made sense. '_Could this have been the break we had been looking for?_'

I grabbed my phone and quickly typed out a message for Sherlock. My hands could barely manage to grip the phone. It was as if all the strength in my body had been drained.

"I've found something in the articles. You need to see this."

Sherlock arrived about thirty minutes later. I prepped the kettle and had a cup of tea waiting for him when he returned. He took his usual seat next to the fire, in his high backed armchair. He sipped his tea quietly for a moment composing himself. Starring into the flames he softly spoke.

"What is it John? Take me through it," he solemnly said.

I carefully walked him trough my process. How many articles I had read, where I found the names, why I recognized them. I began to debrief Sherlock on Pike's file, but he abruptly stopped me – holding his hand, never averting his gaze from the fire.

"I know Langdale. I've known him for sometime, granted his aliases are news… He went to University College London with Mary and I. I would say in a sense we were well acquainted. He was studying language and culture with her. They both had aspirations to be journalists. Pike and I both dropped out at about the same time, I out of boredom and him due to alcohol. He drifted around London. He found comfort on St. James's Street – ironically the patron of Laborers… I'm not sure he's ever done an honest day's work. Eventually he cleaned himself up and found work reporting for one of the garbage papers – The Sun, The Daily Mirror, The People – you get the like. In fact, I believe that throughout his career he worked for them all at some point or another. Pike helped me once on a case… I needed help learning a murder's name, he had information. He always seemed to have information regarding scandals across London. I suppose big ears and loose tongues easily mix…" he trailed off. Still he sat before the fire, his eyes blank and lost. "Have you checked the articles? We have three and five, what about one, seven and eleven?"

"I thought the numbers were arbitrary to lead us to the articles?"

"They were… Er, are… The fact that they're prime is merely a coincidence." He said turning in his chair, fire now in his eyes.

We spent the next several hours combing through each of the remaining articles. We found additional known aliases in articles one and seven – Lord Peter and Donald Frist, respectively. We catalogued where we found the names, the information associated with him, and any claims he made as to where the information was discovered. Everything seemed to be falling into place until we began on article eleven. Our enthusiasm quickly became frustration, as throughout the article not a single source was named. Every single piece of information came from one of several anonymous sources. We scoured over and over again for the tiniest of clues, yet with each read and every question, we found nothing.

Sherlock's frustration quickly began to change from general displeasure to exuberant anger. Finally he broke. Grabbing the glass ashtray from the coffee table he threw it across the room, smashing against the hearth of the fireplace. The loud crash made me jump in my chair.

"She's been right about everything up to this point. He's in all the articles. She wouldn't have added eleven if she didn't need to." He ranted pacing frantically across the room, his hands tightly grasping and tugging his somewhat matted black hair. Frantically he paced his words fading and becoming just silent miming.

I sat sipping my tea, quietly. Never have I wanted to be somewhere different more than this moment. I just sat, starring off into space. No talking, no thinking, nothing to draw attention to myself, nor the ire of Sherlock.

I'm not to sure how long I 'meditated', but the flying of papers, thudding of files and crinkling of newspaper brought me back to 221b. Sherlock had cleared the table by throwing everything on the floor, spreading the newspaper across its entirety.

"John, its here. I know its here. Focus. We just need to focus." Desperation filled his voice. He eyes racing over the document, try to scan for every detail, but it was clear he couldn't absorb anything.

"What do you say we take a break, a few minutes to collect our thoughts? Perhaps we can grab a meal?" I asked, trying to gain his attention.

"What? Eat? Now? No… - How could you even think of such a thing? We are on the very verge of cracking this case wide-open and all you can think about is food. Go on, stuff yourself full! Maybe then you might be worth something!" he snorted out.

"I didn't mean it like that - I just thought a small break would give us the time we needed to collect our thoughts, composure and bring a renewed energy to the search." I tried staying calm, anger welled inside.

"No, its here. We're this close. We'll find it if we look harder!" desperation faded into hopelessness.

I stood joining him at the table, leaning, straining over his shoulder. The fire crackled behind us, our shadows dancing across the yellowed pages. Again I read the article, and again nothing jumped out. _"If there is something here, she's done a good job at hiding it."_ I thought to myself.

I tried beginning the article again, but my eyes wouldn't let me. Words blurred. Paragraphs pulsed in and out of focus. I rubbed my eyes, glancing to the ceiling. Deep down I think I hoped that something would happen. Something would appear.

Looking back down at the paper my eyes were drawn to the red façade of, at the time, the Royal London Homeopathic Hospital – now the Royal London Hospital for Integrated Medicine. I'm not quite sure I had really ever paid much attention to the look of the hospital, its red brick exterior, white washed window frames, black rod iron fence. It seemed so stoic, so at peace, despite the accusations within the article.

"Sherlock," I said nudging him with my elbow, "look here." Pausing until I had his full attention. "This photo is dated June 1997, just a few months before…" I trailed off.

"Yes, The article came out the July 2nd, 1997. A Wednesday. In order to get to print these pictures would have to have been taken much earlier." He said not seeming to pay much attention to the picture.

"I realize Sherlock, but look - it's a long exposure photo. It's impossible to make out the identity of anyone, but here… This man, for the duration of the photo stands leaning against the light pole. He doesn't move. He stares directly at the camera. And look closely, who does that look like to you?"

"Its hard to tell, the picture is fairly old and faded." He said leaning in, trying to study the seemingly ghostly figure. "Magnifying glass." He continued holding his hand out, his eyes not breaking from the photo.

Hastily I searched the desk, throwing papers to the floor, emptying and slamming drawers.

"Not there… Its in the kitchen, the drawer to the left of the sink. It should be in a yellow envelope, unsealed." He motioned, continuing to remain hunched over the table.

"Why would you keep it there? I'm not sure how you can ever find anything…" I uttered retrieving the envelope.

"Its as good a place as any!" he retorted. "I knew where it was, that's all the matters…"

"Yeah, yeah… Here," I said placing the unopened manila envelope in his outstretched hand.

Looking toward the envelope, annoyingly, "Thanks, John. - You're about as helpful as a trained chimpanzee, though I think he'd be of better conversation." Opening the envelope violently, sneering in my direction.

I couldn't help but smile slightly.

Sherlock carefully examined the photograph in the paper, quickly and abruptly shifting his attention between the paper and the official photo attached to the file sent by Mycroft, as if to check individual details of the two.

Suddenly the glass flew across the room, smashing against the fireplace. His chair clattering to the floor as he quickly jumped up from the table to pace. Frustratingly he tousled his hair, muttering and cursing under his breath.

"Grab your coat John. We're going!" He spun throwing his trench over his shoulders, wrapping his scarf tightly about his neck.

Sherlock hailed a cab as I hurried down the stairs. As quickly as the cab door closed behind me, we sped off down Baker Street. Sherlock sat buried in his phone. Pounding out messages, searching websites, and scrolling through photos of the case he had sent to his phone.

"Where are we headed?" I asked after a few minutes of silence.

"The Directors Lodge Club. St. James's," he replied with a sly smile as he glanced in my direction.

It wasn't long before the cab pulled in front of a rather discreet white plastered building with a drab brown awning bearing 'Directors Lodge Club' scrawled in white gothic-esque letters. Thin red veils hung in each of the two large boxed windows, casting an eerie red glow on across the sidewalk. Two sculpted miniature pines flanked the entrance, which was an inconspicuous brown door.

Several men exited as we made our way toward the entrance. They kept their heads bowed and out of sight of those on the street.

"What are we doing here?" I asked reaching for the door.

"Looking for Pike. This is his favorite - hangout."

"And what exactly is the 'Directors Lodge Club?" Again he smiled slyly.

Inside we were immediately greeted by both the hostess and the loud thumping of music. As I soon discovered, the 'Directors Lodge Club' was a restaurant specializing in Thai food, which had found a niche by offering topless cabaret dancing. It was neither fully a restaurant, nor a strip club, though it was certainly a little of both. Sherlock flashed two fingers at the waitress and we were seated in a corner booth overlooking the rest of the restaurant.

The atmosphere of the club rather fittingly reflected the exterior of the building – drab, bland, outdated, dark, and rather worn. The place had a depressing air about it.

Sherlock sat primly, surveying the club. The waitress brought us over two glasses of water as I sorted through the menu, trying as best as I could to keep my face buried and my eyes from wandering. There was a knot deep in the pit of my stomach.

"Couldn't we have found Langdale at his home or office?" I whispered, the angst apparent in words, though seemingly falling on deaf ears.

"Gentlemen, can I offer you either any suggestions on the menu, or send one of our hostesses over for your entertainment?" The waitress said having appeared out of nowhere.

"No! - No, no… We'll just order thank you. No need to send anyone over-," I blurted out. "Um… I will have the Som Tam. Thanks."

"Tom Yam Goong," Sherlock added pointedly, never ceasing to survey the room.

Collecting the menus the waitress shuffled off to another table. "Sherlock, I'm not sure I'm comfortable with this… Being here…"

"Clearly. Though when dealing with unsavory characters, one must make sacrifices."

"You're enjoying this aren't you?" I scowled.

Again a thin smile found his lips. "Immensely."

It wasn't long before our food came. Surprisingly despite my skepticism, it was rather delicious, yet Sherlock had barely touched his meal. He was more quiet than normal as we ate, despite twice during the meal having been approached by dancers asking if we were interested in some form of entertainment. Each time I could feel myself blush red, as I blubbered embarrassingly that we were fine, not interested.

I was about half finished with my meal when Sherlock leaned in.

"I told you we'd find him here. He just walked in. - Don't look!" he whispered. "He's headed for the bar. Predictable… The weak finding comfort in their glasses…"

Casually I glanced over my shoulder, "What's your plan?"

"Let him drink."

We finished our meal, keeping a close watch on Langdale, but never obvious enough to have drawn his suspicion. It wasn't long before he was joined by two other men and a younger woman. They sat and drank for about an hour seeming to negotiate and debate. Eventually they all took a shot, shook hands, and the three left.

Silently Sherlock stood, motioned for me to remain behind, and made his way to the bar. He found a spot a few empty chairs down from where Langdale was seated, before he leaned over the bar and called for the bartender. It was clear that Langdale instantly recognized his old acquaintance, standing, holding his arms out in an effort to greet him.

They sat and talked for the better part of an hour, though it felt significantly longer. The restaurant had grown busier as the night progressed. The music thoroughly pounded away at my head, and the lights were flashing dizzyingly. Finally Sherlock rejoined me at my table.

"Well?" I questioned.

"We'll be joining Pike for dinner the day after tomorrow - The Delaunay, eight o'clock." Sherlock must have read my puzzlement on my face, he continued, "He's doing business now John. We'll need to get some time with him. Isolated from the work, if you can call it that, which he does here."

"And what work might that be?"

"Dealing in the wretched, miscreants, and scum. Remember Charles Augustus?" not waiting for an answer, "Let's just say that he had a rather willing and able apprentice…"

Deciding it best we at least appear to have genuinely been at the restaurant we remained for another thirty minutes. All the while Sherlock kept close track of Langdale out of his periphery.

Upon leaving the restaurant, if you could call it that, we headed straight for 221b. Lestrade was already there waiting for us.

"I am going to have to speak with Ms. Hudson about letting you in. I don't want you trying to insert yourself in my cases." Sherlock uttered, grabbing a handful of files from Lestrade.

"If you want information from our files, then perhaps you should be a little nicer." Pausing only momentarily to let the comment sink in. "That's everything we have on Langdale Pike. He was never considered a suspect in '97. He wasn't questioned. He's been arrested several times, never anything serious. A few minor charges stuck. His last arrest was in 2008 for public intoxication. For a time in the early 2000's he worked with us as an informant, but the relationship went down hill around 2006, and we killed the relationship in 2007."

Sherlock focused on the documents. Constantly scanning, turning pages, absorbing. "What kinds of information did he give you?" He asked softly, not seeming interested in the answer.

"Anything and everything. Langdale Pike is a man with an ear to the wind. If there is something happening in London, somehow he learns about it."

"Why did the relationship sour?" Still his nose buried in the documents.

"He began withholding data, sources, and knowledge. He stopped reporting to us, and, we suspect, began reporting on us. There was just one common factor in our failure…"

"Langdale." I finished for him, gaining a glance and nod of approval, his lips pursed.

Pulling up his chair, Sherlock motioned for us to leave, his file still consuming his attention.

Knowing better than question him, both Lestrade and I made our way to the door, and agreed to grab a cup of tea at a nearby café.

"Do you think he did it?" he asked as we walked.

"I don't know what to think," I muttered starring at the ground as we walked. "Up until a few weeks ago I didn't even know she had been a part of his life."

"He's never made it this far, you know? In the past he would occasionally get some wild idea for us to follow-up on. We would of course, but it never panned out."

"Who's to say this time is any different?" I asked


	5. Chapter 5

When I returned from the café Sherlock had gone. The file on Langdale was spread across the desk. I took a few minutes to read through the documentation, though nothing of any interest caught my attention.

The flat was unbearably quiet. I stood in the living room for absorbing it all. It wasn't as comforting as I had imagined it would be. I had imagined being in this situation before, it had always been so relaxing, a relief. But it wasn't. It made me uncomfortable, uneasy.

I made a pot of tea and myself comfortable on the sofa. It had been a long several days, days in which I hadn't slept much. It wasn't long before I was overwhelmed by sleep.

Sherlock was pacing in circles when I awoke. He held one hand to his forehead, as he muttered.

"How long have you been here?" I groggily asked. The question went ignored. "Where have you been," checking my watch, "these last, eh, four hours?"

"Casting the net. Catching a fish." Sherlock replied tousling his black hair.

"I'm sorry… I don't think… What?"

"Wiggins, John, Wiggins."

The name wasn't one that I recognized. "Who?" My lack of understanding growing more apparent.

Frustrated Sherlock stopped pacing, his voice rising slightly. "Wiggins! From Leicester Square… He stands in front of the Empire Cinema. For god's sake John, he's been in this flat." He cursed under his breath without turning.

I recognized now whom Sherlock was referring to. Wiggins was the leader of Sherlock's 'intelligence network', as he liked to refer to them. He was a homeless man, mid-fifties if I had to guess. He was exceptionally smart considering how he was judged by his situation. I remember once he told Sherlock, _"I like work. It fascinates me. I can sit and look at it for hours, though I would rather be slave to mine self, and fill my days with that which makes me happy."_

"And what does Wiggins have to do with 'casting the net'?"

"Because you can't catch a fish without chumming the waters, now can you?" Sherlock sneered.

"And… That means…?"

"Wiggins will have the intelligence network begin spreading the word that the police are looking for an unknown journalist in regards to a cold case murder of another journalist. Word will get around to Pike, seeing as he is so keen on keeping an ear to the wind. Hopefully that will tip his hand when we meet at The Delaunay," he explained.

The next day seemed to fly by. Sherlock spent most of the day receiving updates from different members of the intelligence network. The information he had contrived had managed to make its way throughout most of London.

Thursday Sherlock waited impatiently for the meeting with Langdale. He paced incessantly, checking his watch every couple of minutes. Occasionally he would play a few notes on his violin.

When we finally arrived at the restaurant it was more impressive than I had expected. The entrance was flanked by two marble columns. An old world chandelier hung from a long chain. The walls were paneled in dark stained wood. The rooms were spacious and gave off the air of a theatre rather than a restaurant. Brass rails filled the rooms, and old antique mirrors added to the illusion of expansiveness. The floors were tiled with black and white marble, polished to a shine. Portraits of figures seemingly important, hung around the walls.

Langdale had beaten us there and the hostess was expecting us. He stood to greet us as we approached. For a man of such unsavory character, he was exceptionally well mannered. A few formalities were exchanged, and the waitstaff brought our drinks.

It wasn't until we were seated that it was apparent that Langdale was preoccupied and uneasy. Sherlock had already noted his discomfort, patiently waiting for the appropriate moment to bring it up in conversation. Langdale spoke of potential scandal in parliament and corruption amongst the local constables, more in an effort to impress Sherlock rather than in a bid to be accurate.

Our entrees came, and the conversations dwindled as we enjoyed our food. Setting his fork and knife aside, Sherlock dabbed his mouth with his napkin and cleared his throat.

"Rumor has it on the street that the police are close to solving a cold case murder. I was hoping you might have some information from your sources regarding this," he said softly, knowingly.

Langdale started slightly, taking a moment to recollect himself and gain his composure. "Being so close to the authorities I thought you might have more information than I," he replied, trying not to reveal what he really knew.

Sherlock gauged his advisory. His lips pursed together. It was a game Sherlock had played before. A game he'd never lost. It was a balance, and he knew it. "Lestrade had mentioned that they were making progress in a few cases. Seems that Mary's is the furthest along." He leaned in, looking for a response.

"Word is circling that it's a journalist they are looking for. Apparently there was a break in the case relating to a former co-worker," Langdale said looking at and fidgeting with his tie, brushing a few crumbs from his lap. "Something about a stalker and clues that were missed. That's all I know." He never raised his eyes from his lap.

Sherlock didn't press him for answers. "What we know, Pike, is that the murderer was someone Mary knew, we suspect a former co-worker or friend. Someone she had trusted. The police have drawn up a list of suspects with that in mind. It's a relatively short list." He paused knowingly. "Your name is at the top."

The color drained from Langdale's face. He began vigorously questioning Sherlock regarding the case. Holmes brushed each question off.

"Pike… I've told you all I know. If I learn anything else I'll tell you. You and I and Mary - we," he said with a heavy emphasis on the word, "were all friends. We helped each other. I don't think you did it. I wanted to warn you that they might be knocking on your door with questions." I was never fully able to grasp just how well Sherlock could lie. He was not only convincing in his statement, but also a combination of both compassionate and comforting.

Langdale thanked Sherlock for the information, and took an early leave from us, grabbing his bowler and trench from the brass rack near the table. He nodded a final slight thanks, and hastily made his way toward the exit.

Sherlock sat quietly eating his meal until Langdale was out the door, a large smile on his face. I had seen the look before, and my stomach knotted slightly.

"The trap's been set," he whispered with delight, a look in his eyes I hadn't seen in some time.

Abruptly he stood, sending his silverware tumbling across the table. "John, don't wait up!" He called back as he made his way to the door.

"Yeah, sure, leave me with the bill won't you. Choose one of the most expensive restaurants in London, but don't worry _'John's got the bill'_," I mumbled reaching for my wallet. _'He's a doctor he can afford it,' _doing my best to mine Sherlock.

"It seems as if you've been deserted. I suppose, then, that you wouldn't mind my joining you." Though the voice came from behind me, it was unmistakable.

"Mycroft, what a _pleasant_ surprise. I wasn't expecting you," I replied, as he took his place across from me.

"I make it habit to be unexpected. As I'm sure you've become accustomed to," a small smile crawling across his lips as he noted my frustrated agreement. "Seems like the two of you have been busy lately. Obviously Sherlock is excited. Care to -enlighten me?"

"Well we're making a considerable amount of headway regarding Mary's case. I think that gives him hope." Mycroft chuckled at the notion.

"Sherlock doesn't believe in hope. It's a word for the weak minded, unmotivated," he retorted. "Hope is what we grasp at when there is nothing left in which to live for. Wouldn't you agree doctor?" His brow raising both inquisitively and disinterested.

"Why are you here Mycroft, I don't imagine its to pay your brother's portion of the bill is it?"

He gave a slight nod, noting my frustration and lack of patience. "Quite," he said pausing to collect himself, signaling the waitstaff that he would take a cup of tea, two sugars with a dash of milk. "Sometimes it is better for Sherlock to not know the truth. It is easier on the brain to try to solve a problem, rather than interpret and explain why it exists."

I was used to Mycroft speaking in generalities, it was one of the many things that bothered me about him. That and his seemingly endless knowledge about people, places, events…

Mycroft reached inside his suit jacket pocket. He pulled out an old yellowed envelope, laying it on the table. "She wrote that John. It was for him. I confiscated it from police the day she died. They had found it amongst the belongings on her person," he paused. The air grew heavy. I couldn't bare to look away from the envelope.

"How could you keep this from him? All these years… He's wanted nothing more than to say goodbye." My voice cracked both in angst and anger.

"When you have a mind as great as that of Sherlock Holmes, you don't blind it with emotion, rather you let it question, deduce, and learn. John, I'm giving you this letter, and I trust you'll take to heart what I'm about to say. If he reads it now he will become his catatonic former self. Let him solve the case. Support him, as he needs it. Only after the murderer is apprehended let him read it." He rose reaching for his trench and umbrella.

"Don't let him see it a second sooner," he added, pointing the umbrella threateningly in my direction before making his way to the door.

I turned just in time to see the waitress set a fresh cup of tea in front of the chair in which he had been sitting. She offered a fresh bill to reflect the new order.


	6. Chapter 6

When I had finally made my way back to 221b, Sherlock was still out. Mrs. Hudson had left a tray of biscuits for us to enjoy at our leisure, though at the moment I was far from hungry. My stomach had been in knots since having spoken with Mycroft.

I sat at the working table, the letter laying on my laptop's keyboard. I hadn't let it out of my sight since it had been sat down before me. I had the deepest urge to read it, but each time I went to retrieve the paper from its unsealed envelope I was overcome by an attack of propriety.

_"Maybe it contains a vital clue, or even the name of the killer," _I had tried to reason. For now I could only sit and stare. I knew that it would need to be hidden away before Sherlock returned, as he would undoubtedly notice its presence, or at the least my clumsy and urgent attempt to hide it from him. But for now I couldn't do anything, my thoughts numb.

Whether I should admit it or not, I was ultimately overcome by curiosity. I slowly removed the aged paper from the envelope, carefully studying it. The page screamed as I began unfolded it. The letter was handwritten in the most brilliant of penmanship I have ever been privileged to read. A small bee was hand-drawn in the lower left hand corner of the page.

_Dearest Lollie,_

_ I hope that you will never have to read this letter, and that one day I shall be able to burn it, it's contents never becoming known. Unfortunately, currently, I fear that could never be the case. To be blunt, I think very shortly there will be an attempt made on my life, perhaps even yours._

_ Several letters have been sent to my office in the recent weeks, all of them demanding I disgrace you. Each in their own way demanding I publically denounce you as a fraud. This, you know, I could never do. Even the thought of entertaining such an idea breaks my heart._

_ The last letter was the most explicit. Its demand was clear. Either I was to 'mock and destroy the man I love, or the man I love would himself be made an ignorant fool – either through death or dumbfoundedness'. The author claims that any attempt to alert you or the police to their letters will be retaliated against severely._

_ I've done all I can to track the author, discover their identity. And if you're reading this I will have gotten too close. For now all I know is that this stalker has explicit knowledge of our relationship, of my work, and of our past._

_ Find them. That's all I could ever ask from you my love. Find them wherever they hide, behind whatever mask they wear. Expose them as the coward they are._

_ I love you Lollie, with all my being. I always have, and I always will. Never forget me, but don't shed any tears for me. I bear my burdens, as I know you will yours. Love each day as if I am there with you. Eternity will ultimately be ours to savor._

_ Goodbye my love,_

_ Mary_

I read the letter several times before carefully folding it, and returning it to its stiff envelope. Quietly I tucked the envelope into my jacket pocket. I sat back in the large wing chair next to the fireplace. Deep inside my chest it felt as if a part of me had died. Nothing in the moment seemed to make sense.

"Something bothering you John?" The question made me almost jump from my chair. Sherlock stood leaning against the door jam.

"No… No, I'm fine. Why do you ask? How long have you been standing there?" I stammered, grabbing my chest in a futile attempt to calm the pounding.

"Good," he replied ignoring the questions bounding into the room, "We have some work to do!"

Sherlock explained that Langdale had been spotted by the intelligence network as having stopped by a central London bank famous for its private security deposit boxes. When he left the bank he was carrying a small brown satchel.

It didn't need saying that we both knew the key to this case would be inside. Though we had a reasonably good suspicion that Langdale was the murderer, we were missing any solid evidence. We needed something more concrete than the trail of cookie crumbs strewn through Mary's articles.

The plan was simple. Langdale lived in a small second story flat in London's East End. Sherlock's intelligence network would create a distraction out front, while Sherlock and I would enter the apartment from a window on the fire escape. The intelligence network had already taken note that the window was cracked each night when Langdale went to bed. It was a simple plan, and despite my objections to breaking and entering Sherlock assured me he had full confidence in his network to provide us with the time we would need to get in and out undetected. The goal was to gain access to the flat for no more than five minutes. Locate the bag, and photograph anything important which was inside.

Sherlock was adamant that in case the situation became dire, we would need some means of concealing our identities. As cliché as it sounds, we both settled on ski masks being the best option, due to both ease and availability.

I decided it best that I take the evening to visit Sarah. Throughout our discussing the plan, I had caught my mind wandering back to the letter that now burnt a hole in my coat's chest pocket.

"Don't forget your Springfield, tomorrow I don't expect we'll need it, though a cornered man might lash out in desperation," he called out as I made my way down the stairs.

Behind me the violin began to sing as I stepped to the curb, hailing the first cab I saw.


	7. Chapter 7

It was an unusually warm fall day for London. A yellow beam of sunlight woke me from bed. I had slept in longer than I had anticipated. Sarah was already gone for the morning, leaving a note on the bathroom mirror apologizing for having left while I was asleep.

I went about getting ready for the day as comfortable as if I had been back on Baker Street. I caught a breakfast of porridge and fresh fruit before I left. I realized I needed to spend more time here, with her.

I spent most of the rest of the day running around London trying to take care of the more mundane aspects of living with Sherlock.

It wasn't until about seven o'clock in the evening that I was finally able to make my way to 221b. As I headed up to the flat I was surprised to have passed Molly headed down. We exchanged pleasantries, though it was clear she was both somewhat flustered and oddly happy.

Sherlock stood next to the far window examining a stack of photographs in the light. From his look it was clear he hadn't slept much, if at all the previous evening. He wore the same set of clothes, and there were slight bags under his eyes. There were six darts sticking out of the wall in the shape of a circle. There was the faintest smell of pipe tobacco hanging in the air.

He waved for me to grab a seat without looking up from his photographs.

"Another experiment of yours?" I asked.

"More or less," he said under his breath. "About tonight John. I've gotten the address from the intelligence network, and three of the irregulars will start a disturbance out front of Pike's apartment when I give them the go ahead. The goal will be to rouse Pike from his sleep so as to keep him disoriented and frustrated enough to buy us time inside."

For the first time he looked up from the documents. Despite his appearance his cold blue eyes were alive. They cut through me to the core.

I still needed to gather a few remaining items for the night's excursion. Sherlock recognized my apprehension and left me to prepare – if I had to guess both physically and mentally.

I grabbed a small black duffel from my closet, and began packing it with everything we'd need – ski masks, eye black, an extra sets of gloves, two cameras, two hand torches, a hook and pick set, a few hand towels, and finally my Glock 17.

I sat on the bed with the packed bag next to me. I pulled Mary's letter from my pocket. Once more I was overcome by what I had read the day before. It all seemed like it was from a dream.

I don't know how long I played with the envelope, running my fingers over it. But I was drawn from my trance when Sherlock burst through my door. He was dressed in all black; opting to wear a smaller more form fitting jacket rather than his traditional trench.

"It's time. Let's go!"

I pulled the Glock from my bag a final time, checked the load and safety, and slid it into the back of my pants. I tossed him the open bag. I rose and slipped the letter into the top drawer of my desk.

"What's that?" He asked.

"A letter from Harry, sent while I was in Afghanistan. I found it while loading our gear." I feigned a smile.

I don't pretend to believe for a moment that he believed me. I changed into a more fitting black sweater and it was time to go.

The cab ride was relatively uneventful, and predictably quiet. Out the window the buildings changed from that of posh apartments to a mix of government run housing and industrial warehouses.

"Stop! Here!" Sherlock suddenly called.

"Where are we," I asked exiting the cab with our small duffel.

"Six blocks," he answered paying the cabbie.

We walked to the alley running behind Langdale's apartment; though it didn't sound far it took us significantly longer to get there than expected. A light shone through his second story window illuminating a small patch of puddled asphalt.

We crouched in the shadows, waiting, hoping everything would go to plan. The tall and lanky shadow of Langdale Pike passed multiple times in front of the veiled window, as if he were pacing.

After about two hours of waiting the lights in the apartment went out. It would be another hour and half or two hours before Sherlock would signal the irregulars to begin their distraction. The late night air was cold, chilling to the bone. It didn't help there was a rather stiff breeze funneling through the alley; eventually a slight mist began to fall.

After what seemed like an eternity Sherlock tapped me on the shoulder, motioning toward the duffel. It was finally time to start getting ready. We generously applied the eye-black before situating out masks.

Sherlock pulled his phone from his pocket, the screen faintly lighting the narrow outcropping we had taken cover in. With a few quick taps of his finger he was done.

We didn't wait for the distraction before making our way up the old fire escape. The aging metal groaned under our weight as we climbed. We huddled each side of Langdale's window, Sherlock nervously checking his watch.

It wasn't long until we could hear the load yelling of drunkards making their way down the lane. It sounded to be a group of three to four men, all incredibly boisterous. The group stopped in front of Langdale's building, their yelling growing more intense. Insults and insinuations began flying back and forth. It wasn't long until the group and broken into a brawl.

We could hear car alarms begin to wail as the scuffle took a more violent turn. Lights throughout the complex began to turn on, shouting coming from windows.

From inside we could here Langdale shouting from his window followed by the slamming of his front door. Quickly we pulled our masks down over out faces.

Pressing our gloved hands against the window, we began to slide the window open. The window opened rather easily, but only for about six inches. My pulse rate quickened as we tried to pry the window open further, as I knew we were wasting precious and valuable time.

Sherlock diligently began to work on trying to clear the window's track. I knew we would never get the window open in time and took it upon myself to hurry our progress along. With a quick thrust of my elbow the window shattered. I knew once we were found ourselves safely back at Baker Street that Sherlock would lecture me on the dangers I had placed us in, but in this moment he ignored the noise and slinked through the window.

Once inside we found ourselves in the living area. He motioned for me to check the rooms to the right, and he would take the rooms to the left. There weren't many as it was, as I have noted a small apartment.

I ignored to check the bathroom, assuming anything of importance wouldn't be kept there, and made my way straight for the bedroom. Checking my watch we had already wasted two of our five minutes.

I took a quick survey of the space. The bedroom was small and rather bare. A small twin bed sat in the far corner, the sheets thrown aside. A pile of dirty clothes had accumulated in another corner. There was a small wooden desk next to the door, its top cluttered in stacks of papers.

I quickly made my way to the bed, pulling everything from beneath it. No satchel. Frantically I began to search through the dresser, throwing clothes all over the floor. Again the bag wasn't to be found. It was then that I heard the front door open. The living room light flicked on, the light creeping under the crack in the door.

Panicking I tucked myself into the closet, closing the sliding door behind me leaving just a small crack to look out. My watched showed seven minutes had passed.

I could hear the door slowly swing open, the creaking piercing through the night. My hand naturally rested on the handle of the Glock tucked into my waistband.

Through the crack I could see that Langdale was terrified. He had found and was carrying around a sort of make shift club. He made his way toward the closet and I crotched to ready to spring the moment he opened the door.

He slid his hand into the gap in the door and flung it open. Immediately I sprung jamming my shoulder directly into his sternum. Tackling him to the floor. My ankle remained tangled in something from closet floor. He howled wildly as we fell. Sitting on his chest I could see the terror in his eyes. I took advantage of my superior position and cracked him twice across the chin.

To his credit Langdale didn't give up and was able to throw me against the door blocking the entrance to the room. As I climbed to my feet, I noticed the satchel was laying on the floor where it had tangled around my ankle.

Thinking quickly I flipped the lights off, just as I took a strike from Langdale's club square in the back. In my pain and surprise he wrapped the club around my neck choking me. Desperate to get free I struck my elbow deep into his ribs, then slammed my head back into his nose.

He cried in pain stumbling backwards. Clutching for something to grab hold of he pulled my mask from my head. Gasping for air I pulled my pistol from my waistband and pointed it directly at him. My only hope at this point was the eye-black provided enough of a cover, while the pistol distracted his attention away from my physical characteristics.

Laying on the ground he held both hands where I could see them pleading I spare his life. Silently I bent down and grabbed the satchel from between his legs. To prevent him from trying to follow me, I swiftly kicked him between his legs, driving my foot deep into his torso. He squealed and writhed on the floor.

Climbing down the fire escape I could see Sherlock had remained behind waiting for me. Knowing the situation was dire we took off sprinting down the alley. I stuffed our remaining equipment into the duffel.

It was six or seven blocks before we stopped to try and clean up. We still needed to make it back across London.

"Did you find the bag," he asked wiping his face.

Out of breath, clutching my ribs, I held up the bounty.


	8. Chapter 8

It took us significantly longer to get to back to Baker Street than I had expected. The night sky had begun to brighten to the east, though the sun was still and hour and half or longer from rising.

Both Sherlock and I split to our respective rooms, both of us desiring a clean, dry set of clothes. My heart still pounded with adrenaline, and my ribs ached with every movement. They had already begun to bruise significantly.

I could hear voices coming from the living area, and decided it better to dress quickly to join whoever had stopped by. Heading for the foyer, I grabbed a towel to dry my hair.

I stopped cold in the doorway from the kitchen, as Sherlock sat speaking with Langdale. He motioned me in, noting my leeriness. I took a seat on the couch slightly over his shoulder and to his right, ensuring I was out of his direct line of sight.

"Please Pike, I understand you've had a disturbing night, and I hate to have you relive the events again, but I think it would be valuable for my partner – Dr. Watson," he said motioning toward me, "to hear exactly what happened."

Langdale turned with a slight nod and began his story again. He had a bandage across his nose, and a few streaks of dried blood he had failed to clean. His eyes had already begun to darken; by midday he'd have two frighteningly black eyes. There was a deep gash that ran from his left cheek to his chin, where I had caught him off-guard early in the scuffle. He voice betrayed his emotion, and it was clear he was still visibly shaken.

I would be lying if I said the story wasn't interesting. His version of events differing slightly from how I had perceived them. It was clear he had not recognized me in the few moments I was without my mask. He had brought my mask along with him hoping it might help us solve the 'case'. He outlined how he had seen the first thief hurry out the window, only to be confronted by a second thief in his bedroom.

"I need that bag back Sherlock. Normally I'd go to the police, but a man in my position sometimes can't always trust they'd be as diligent as they should be. Needless to say I wouldn't want them to get their hands on what is inside." He pled.

"What's in the bag?" Sherlock blankly asked, his eyes narrowing observing Langdale's every move.

"You know I couldn't tell you that. - I have many secrets I've learned throughout the years, many from people who never knew they had given them up. If I told you what's in the bag it would be disastrous for my network of contacts and sources. I trust you Sherlock. I trust you'll get my bag back, and I trust that you'll not peek inside. Please can you help me?"

"Describe the two thieves for me."

"The first was tall, needing to duck significantly to fit through the window - maybe six foot, six-two. He was fairly skinny. The second was shorter - five-four, maybe five. He was a little more full in figure than the first." I shifted my weight in the chair, a combination of concern and displeasure in his description. "He had eye-black on, and with the lights off I can't be certain about his hair blonde, maybe mixed slightly with brown. I do remember his ears were a larger. Larger than fit his proportions," he finished. Subconsciously I found myself feeling my ears.

"That's it?!" Sherlock laughed. "You expect me to find two criminals based on those descriptions?! Honestly that could be anyone! The second thief you described might as well have been John!" He chuckled pointing in my direction. Langdale looked over his shoulder, realizing how absurd the request was, and chuckled lowly.

"I suppose you're right," he said turning back to Sherlock.

"If you want my help, tell me what is in the bag." His eyes narrowing, his tone growing cold and pointed.

"I can't… You know I can't," Langdale stammered.

"First you give me descriptions that are utterly worthless in helping, then you refuse to help me create a profile by denying me vital information as to what they might have been after! Without knowing what's in the bag, I can't help you. How am I supposed to track two thieves 'of general nature'," Sherlock sneered, using his fingers to make quotes in the air, "when I have no idea why they would have wanted your bag in the first place!"

Defeated Langdale rose starring blankly at the floor. He exchanged handshakes with both Sherlock and me, before sullenly making his way from the flat and down the stairs.

I rose, closing the door behind him. When I turned Sherlock beamed, a smile from ear to ear. There was a twinkle in his eye that for some time had been absent. He steepled his fingers, one leg crossed over the other. "Shall we have a look?"

I retrieved the satchel from where we had stashed it in the duffle. Setting it on the worktable. Sherlock remained in his chair, giving the slight nod to continue.

I opened the clasp and folded the flap over, peering inside. There were several documents – photos and newspaper clippings, but my attention was immediately drawn toward a piece of fabric wadded in the bottom.

I pulled it out of the bag; its heavy weight surprised me. Cautiously I began to unfold the soft satin fabric. It was brilliantly colored - a fantastic shade of baby blue danced with both a deep, sensual purple and a shade of delicate pink. A dark brown stain discolored the left half of what turned out to be a woman's scarf, taking the fabric from soft and beautiful, to crusty, dry, and brittle. Flakes of dried blood sprinkled the table's top.

A beautiful brooch had been wrapped in the fabric. It was silver, encrusted with jewels, sweeping in a wide loop, very much as if the artist had merely flicked his wrist in a circle. Several blue sapphires sparkled in the desk lamp's light, some coated in dried and crumbling blood. I laid it next to the scarf.

Next I pulled several documents out of the bag. Several had the distinct appearance of surveillance photos, all of Mary. They captured her going about her daily activities – working at her desk, standing in line at a café, meeting with colleagues for a drink, coming and going from her flat. Some photos though were too gruesome to bare, taken only moments after the killing. They had an unmistakable sexual nature to them. I could feel myself flushing from anger and disgust. Other pages included hand drawn sketches. As pieces of art they were brilliantly conceived, but in knowing what they conveyed it sent shivers down my spine. There was no mistaking their intent; all showed Langdale and Mary engaged in, more often than not, explicit intimate acts. I could feel my stomach not, the urge to vomit almost uncontrollable.

Lastly I removed a small black notebook. It was bound in leather, no more than six inches tall and four inches wide. Inside was what can only be described as a handwritten manifesto. From the few excerpts I read it was clear that Langdale had become obsessed with Mary, and repulsed with Sherlock. He wrote both his fantasies and his plans – chief amongst them 'the disgrace and death of Holmes'. In his lust for Mary, Sherlock became his sole enemy. On the last page, the last entry, was a modified quote from Aneurin Bevan – _"No attempts at ethical or social seduction can eradicate from my heart the deep and burning hatred for Sherlock Holmes. So far as I am concerned he is lower than vermin."_

I turned to Sherlock, book in hand. He sat starring at the table, and at everything I had piled atop it. To this day I can't be certain what emotion coursed through his veins, but in me there was nothing but rage; nothing but the primal urge for revenge. Langdale had played so convincing a friend for so long, able to blindly and happily lie to the man whose wife he brutally beat and executed; able to shamelessly ask for help from the same man whom he hated and had desired dead.

In my rage I grabbed a stack of books, throwing them against the wall, kicking another stack, which had been laid on the floor. Sherlock continued to sit still, unmoved, unflinching, just starring, my ribs and foot ached.

"Perhaps this evening we should pay Langdale another visit," he quietly drifted off, rising and walking to the table. For a moment he stood starring down at everything in front of him. Silently he turned and made his way toward his room.


	9. Chapter 9

I didn't sleep at all that night. In fairness I didn't try. I spent a majority of the night sitting in in the living room starring at the items on the desk. Crumpled, stained, and grotesque in what I knew it meant.

Though he spent the night holed up in his room, I suspect Sherlock didn't sleep much either. He stirred around six in the morning, brewing a cup of tea for himself and a small pot of coffee for me. Dark bags hung under his eyes, I suspect he had slept little in the last three days, a handful of hours at most. Even on him I could see the toll it had taken.

He stood at the window starring out into the lane as the sun began to peek over the horizon, the steam from his cup fogging the window slightly as he raised it to his mouth.

"It has to be today John," his grizzly tired voice softly grumbled. "Knowing that the satchel is gone he will leave town. He will wait until the banks open and drain his accounts. From there I suspect he will make his way to the continent probably by train. His destination will most likely be Switzerland, though I wouldn't rule out something further to the east - his money will go further there. Ukraine, Belarus, perhaps even the Czech Republic. If he makes it out Britain tracking his movements will become even more difficult to track - maybe even impossible."

I knew he was right, and he didn't need such an acknowledgement. I sat silently listening.

"Pike isn't stupid, but he isn't especially bright either," he continued. "He wouldn't keep the bag in the same bank at which he has monetary accounts. The bag he kept at a distance, hoping people wouldn't recognize it existed. He'll bank somewhere convenient both to his work and his home. We find that bank, with branches near both we stand a chance of grabbing him before anything gets complicated."

He turned his blue eyes narrow and piercing, filled with determination, anger, hate, yet softened slightly with a twinge of sadness. "Don't be fooled John. He's desperate, and clever."

I nodded, my understanding clear. "We'll get him," I heard myself say, not knowing how the words had slipped out. The comment was ignored.

Sherlock had made his way to the computer, typing away vigorously. Occasionally he muttered to himself, only to frantically erase everything and begin the search again.

I'm not sure exactly how long he sat there. I had drifted off into my own disjointed thoughts. It wasn't until a jubilant shout and excited jump that I was pulled back into the moment.

"The England First National! England First National!" He jeered, skipping slightly to his skull on the mantle. "John, text Lestrade. Have him take a few men to the branch four blocks from Pike's flat!" picking the skull up excited in his revelation.

Reaching for my phone I couldn't help but seek an explanation, "It couldn't possibly be that simple could it? From everything I've read, and from what you've told me it can't be as easy grabbing him only four blocks from his apartment."

Sherlock stopped everything. Slowly turning his head from the skull toward me. "Of course it's not that easy. He's not going to be there. Don't you see…?" He paused, letting the statement settle in. "Yes there is a branch four blocks from his home, and it makes sense to ensure we have a presence there in case he is more daft than even I suspect. But England First National has a branch just a few blocks from St. Pancras InternationalStation, which conveniently is also only seven blocks from his office. That's where he'll go. And we'll be there to meet him."

It made sense. He could empty his accounts and be on a train in a matter of minutes. "If you're certain that he'll be there, why are we sending Lestrade and his men on a wild goose chase on the opposite side of town?"

For a moment Sherlock ignored the question, returning his focus back to his skull. "Did you send the message?" He pointedly, albeit softly, asked.

I nodded.

"Because I want to be there. I want to see the look in his eyes when **I **confront him. I want to see the terror, and desperation, and defeat. I want him to suffer." He replaced the skull on the mantle and took his teacup and saucer to the kitchen.

He shuffled around the apartment for the next hour, sometimes moving a stack of documents, rearranging a pile of boxes, or simply pacing in what I can only describe as anticipation.

The small clock on the mantel bellowed the hour deeply, eight resounding clangs. I looked knowingly toward Sherlock. He returned my gaze with a slight nod, reaching for his jacket. He glanced slightly over his shoulder toward the scarf and photographs as he passed through the doorway and down the stairs. I tried to feign the look of confidence and reassurance as I followed a few steps behind.

The cold morning air pierced my lungs and each breath swirled about us and dissipated as we stood across the street from England First National. We had made ourselves comfortable in a small family owned bakery, which presented a perfect view both up and down the increasingly busy block and the entrance to the bank.

Patiently we waited, constantly surveying the block doing our best to look inconspicuous. Our table was cluttered with emptied coffee mugs, and the remnants of several breakfast pastries.

Nine o'clock came and went without a sign of Langdale. Sherlock shifted uneasily in his seat. Constantly checking his phone looking for an update from Lestrade. With each passing minute concern grew into impatience, impatience into frustration.

I glanced at my watch, 9:37.

"I'm going to grab another cup. Do you want anything?" I asked rising from my seat. He shook his head, never looking away from the busy thoroughfare before the café.

Standing in line to reach the counter, I couldn't help but feel a sense of helplessness for the man. He had been through so much, lost a piece of himself, and now the agony of waiting, of time lost, of anguish. I knew he hurt, but from the rest of the world he hid it well.

Having finally made my way to the counter I ordered a cup of Earl Grey tea. But before the young man even had a chance to return with the hot water a sharp crash echoed through the small space. Instinctively I turned to see Sherlock standing at his feet, his chair tipped over backwards behind him.

"He's just gone inside!" he called over his shoulder, hastily making his way for the door. I slapped a five-pound note on the counter and quickly followed him into morning air and across the lane. The screeching of brakes and wailing of horns filled the air as we darted toward the other side.

As we reached the ornate front door, Sherlock slowed his stride, straightened his jacket, and tugged gently at his collar. He glanced quickly over his shoulder, then entered the bank.

The narrow entrance opened into a large cavernous lobby. The floor was tiled in a beautiful pink marble, and large columns rose to the dark stained wood ceilings. Red velvet ropes directed queues, while several employees dressed in suits greeted patrons and helped to answer questions and direct traffic. To the left the tellers sat behind a high counter, while to the right several desks were scattered about with bankers helping to assist other customers.

Sherlock had stopped just within the doors, scanning the lobby looking for Langdale. He ignored the greetings offered by a bank employee, slowly making his way directly toward the end of the teller counter, where he had spotted Langdale trying to finalize his transaction.

As we approached Langdale spun around, briefcase in hand. He was surprised to see us, and laughed nervously clutching his chest in surprise. "Sherlock, Dr. Watson. - What are you two doing here?"

Sherlock rammed his hands into his pocket, "We saw you on the street, and after having heard about your incident last night I thought we'd offer you a little bit of a gift. - A sort of surprise if you will." He said coldly. Langdale seemed to visibly relax.

Slowly he pulled his hand from his pocket. His long fingers curled closed into a fist. He held his hand out in plain view for Langdale to see. Calmly he opened his fist to reveal the small blood stained broach.

Gasping, Langdale staggered backwards, all the color draining from his face. "How? - No…!" realization dawning, "It was you! You broke into my flat. You stole my satchel…" Sherlock stood firm watching intently, a small smirk creeping across his lips.

Langdale stumbled as he backed into another lady making her way out of the bank. He spun realizing he had backed himself away from entrance. Panic filled his face.

Without warning he burst forward, violently pushing his way between Sherlock and me. He ran across the lobby knocking people over, and pushing others out of his way.

Instinctively Sherlock and I both took off after him, only a few paces behind doing our best to not lose ground. There was a mass of confusion spreading through the lobby, as we ran after him toward the doors. We both knew that we had shone our hand. If he got away now, there was no telling if we would ever be able to locate him again.

Bursting through the front entrance Langdale cut sharply left down the street, the large mass of people making no effort to get out of his way. Sherlock followed shouting for someone to stop the man, while I was slightly further back doing my best to catch up.

Peering over his shoulder and realizing we were still close behind him Langdale, crossed sharply into traffic, dodging a cab as he ran for the other side of the street. We followed, benefiting from the now stopped traffic. A cabbie leaned out of his open window screaming obscenities as we passed.

I'm not sure exactly how many blocks we chased Langdale, but after several minutes Sherlock motioned for me to continue to follow the desperate man, while he branched off and made a right down a back alley.

Langdale continued for two blocks before making an abrupt right, knocking an elderly woman to the ground. She wailed as I jumped over her outstretched legs in pursuit.

It soon became clear that I had neglected my physical fitness more than I had previously thought, as I slowly began to fall further and further behind, failing to pick up ground with each bob, weave and unexpected turn. I could only hope that Sherlock would reappear soon providing me help in a chase I was desperately losing.

As those thoughts began to run through my head, almost as if by divine intervention, Sherlock emerged in front of Langdale, ready to grab him at the next street crossing. I knew we had caught him.

Langdale saw Sherlock and dodged violently to the left, pushing past queued pedestrians and into the intersection. I couldn't exactly see what happened, but could hear tires screech, horns blare, and several people shriek in horror. A cloud of money flew into the air, floating gently on the wind, spinning and turning and falling into the street.

It took me only a second to get to the intersection, forcing my way through the crowd. It was then that it became clear what had happened. When Langdale had rushed into the intersection he had been hit be car, which threw him into another lane. Unfortunately he had landed hard in front of a bus. A bus that didn't have enough time to hardly slow, let alone stop in time to miss him.

Langdale was wedged under the carriage of the bus; a rear tire resting on what should have been his lower torso. I could tell from the distance that his arms were broken, and he had severed at least one of his legs below the knee.

I made my way to the side of the bus forcing people out of my way, informing them I was a doctor. Sherlock had made it before I had. He had his fingers against Langdale's neck starring at his watch.

"Pulse is weak and forty-three," he snorted efficiently at me as I crouched beside him.

"The best we're going to do is make him comfortable, he's lost a lot a blood as it is, he'll never last long enough to get an ambulance here let alone get him to the hospital." I said calmly surveying the injuries.

Langdale's eyes fluttered slightly, blood gargling out of his mouth. He looked at Sherlock than at me. His faint breathing became more shallow. His eyes began glaze over. Finally his body went limp, his head fell heavily to the side, and the slight rhythmic rise of his chest stopping entirely. A final breathe of air gurgled through his blood filled lips.

"No, no, no, NO!" Sherlock screamed with ever-increasing intensity, pounding a clenched fist against the side of the bus.

There wasn't anything I could do but pull him aside. We sat together in absolute silence on the curb. I texted Lestrade filling him in on the details of what had transpired; he promised to arrive shortly. Until then we waited.


End file.
